


Promises to Keep

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Dogs, M/M, Post-War, Puppies, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24217135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: But Sledge looks at Snafu with those weepy, puppy dog eyes of his, the honey golden specks in the chocolate irises shining in the hot pacific sun, and Snafu feels his resolve crumble.“Oh, goddamn it.”OR: The boys find a dog on Okinawa. Sledge wants to keep it.
Relationships: Merriell "Snafu" Shelton/Eugene Sledge
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43
Collections: Heavy Artillery: The Pacific Tenth Anniversary Comment Fest, Loose Lips Sink Ships Prompt Meme





	Promises to Keep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Muccamukk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/gifts).



> For the HA Tenth Anniversary Comment Fest! 
> 
> Bonus fill for the LLSS prompt: "He just can't seem to resist Sledge's puppydog eyes."

“We cain’t keep it.” His declaration is ignored, and Snafu heaves a great, wearisome sigh. This is not an argument he wants to have with his Sledgehammer for several reasons, none the least of which being that the Cajun isn’t sure it’s an argument he’ll win. “We ain’t keepin’ it.”

They’d found the puppy when Company K took Takabanare Island a few weeks after taking Okinawa. It was a scraggily, starved, pitiful mess of a thing with giant patches in its fur—was it black? or was its fur stained dark with the ashes of war?—and a constant itch, the pup’s hindlegs frequently oscillating from a limping strut to a windmilled scratching maneuver. 

But Sledge looks at Snafu with those weepy, puppy dog eyes of his, the honey golden specks in the chocolate irises shining in the hot pacific sun, and Snafu feels his resolve crumble.

“Oh, goddamn it.”

Despite his grumblings, Snafu can’t help but grin—a silly, stupid stretch of lips—when Sledge tucks the mangy pup inside his shirt three days later when the company returns to their bivouac on Okinawa.

For nearly a fortnight, the scruffy mutt tags along with the mortar squad. He trails behind Sledge’s steps, eats scraps of the redhead’s rations when Sledge thinks that Snafu isn’t looking, and sleeps curled against Sledge’s chest in his foxhole at night, the pup’s muzzle resting against the barrel of Sledge’s rifle. 

The others think it’s funny—Sledgehammer’s got a mascot! The teasing doesn’t bother the Southern boy. He’s just grateful for a piece of happiness in the middle of all this mess. For a bit of comfort beyond knowing that the guys to his left and right had his six. For the spark of joy he gets when he rubs the matted fur between the pup’s ears, or when he feels the dog’s tail thumping against his leg as the pup wags cheerfully.

It’s nice. Really nice.

That pleases Sledge, but it worries Snafu. Because—

Naturally, the dog dies.

No one is surprised—there’s a war on and shit, ya know? But still, the guys, Burgin and Leyden, a few of the others, that replacement kid Hamm (with two m’s), they’re all devastated. It happens the way most things do, bloody and violent in an explosion of shrapnel and shrubbery. 

When it does, Snafu invades Sledge’s personal space like it had been Ack Ack’s dying order for him to do so. His bug eyes are wide and pleading. “We’ll get another dog, alright? I promise.” Then, the Cajun’s lips twist into a desperate and wry grin. “Hell, we already got another puppy dog, don’t we?” He reaches up to run his fingers through Sledge’s ginger locks, playfully musing the dirty strands and scrapping his fingernails across the scalp. “Them big ole eyes. And you’re loyal, too. Ain’t that right, Leyden?”

Leyden answers with a noncommittal grunt, as he often does when roped into Sledge’s and Snafu’s more _personal_ conversations.

“Yeah, we got us a puppy dog.” Snafu jostles the redhead affectionately, and Sledge knows that when the other Marines regard the pair of them, Sledge _is_ the tamed puppy dog—perhaps a cocker spaniel like Deacon or a maybe a beagle, curled up on his master’s rug waiting to fetch his slippers or the newspaper—and Snafu is a wild stray—maybe a rottweiler that had once patrolled a junkyard or an abandoned mutt that had never known a home to begin with. But sitting there beside the mangled and fragmented corpse of his war dog under the weight of Snafu’s wide-eyed and begging stare, Sledge sees, suddenly, that he isn’t the puppy in this scenario.

Like a tamed pup desperate for his master’s approval, Snafu kneels beside him with both a sense of patience and urgency.

Sledge tugs at the other man’s sleeve. “Yeah, we’ve already got a puppy dog, Snaf. We’re going to be fine.”

Elated, relief ripples over the plains of Snafu’s face and down his shoulders until his dirty fingers twitch with it. He nods—to Sledge? to himself? to the dead mutt’s corpse?—and rises to his feet. “Alright, then.”

* * *

Two days later, Sledge gets a letter from home—Deacon died.

One war, two dogs.

* * *

Eventually, the war ends. Sledge and Snafu return to the states after months of occupation duty. There’s a train ride and things—heavy things, important things—left unsaid. More time passes, and Sledge finds himself unable to resume his old life, despite his mother’s hovering and Sidney’s pitying glances. The seasons change, and as summer bleeds into fall, Sledge finds that he’s waiting for something. He isn’t sure what, exactly, but he _is_ waiting.

At the end of September, a dilapidated Ford pulls into the drive. It’s been just over a year since the war ended and roughly six months since the redhead has returned to Mobile. Six months of suffocating and anticipation.

From his seat beneath his most beloved oak tree, Sledge watches as the driver door opens, and like a rocket, a giant golden ball bursts out of the truck followed by the familiar, lanky form of a certain marine. Sledge watches, transfixed, as the Cajun dips to playfully rub at the ears of the tall golden retriever that snakes through his legs, tail wagging wildly, hammering against the man’s calves.

Sledge’s mouth is dry, abruptly.

A pair of dark eyes latch onto his, and Sledge is frozen, the roots of the tree digging into his back and ass, as a slow and promising grin spreads across the other man’s face.

With a whistle, Snafu begins making his way across the Sledges’ perfectly manicured lawn to the redheaded boy who sits beneath the tall tree, the golden retrieving happily trudging along beside him.

“I told you we’d get another dog.” Snafu declares this by way of greeting. Up close, Sledge is allowed to catalogue the differences in the man that stands before him and the man who left him sleeping on a train. They’d both put on a bit of weight in China, but Snafu seems to have filled out further still since their return stateside. There’s a nice shape to him now, and the marine’s coloring is better, less sickly, and the bags beneath his eyes are somewhat less purple, though still trench deep. So, he hadn’t been sleeping, either.

The Cajun is sporting a small smile, but there’s a sheen of worry to his wide gaze as he gently kicks Sledge’s shoe with the toe of his own and pats the golden retriever’s head. “Now, you cain’t be picky. This here’s a fine dog.”

A surreal moment lapses before Sledge finds his voice. “What’s his name?”

“Her name. S’a girl. Name’s Peggy Sue.”

An elated laugh escapes him, and the redhead feels his chest burst with the bubble of relief. Whatever he’d been waiting for—this was it. “That’s a terrible name for a dog,” he tells Snafu as he beckons the happy dog forward. She sniffs his arm, wet nose tickling him just so, and the Cajun drawls, voice sweet like honey, “You name ‘er, then.”

“Alright, I will.”

There’s a promise in Sledge’s eyes, those eyes that had once embodied a puppy dog stare. There’s a promise, too, in the curl of Snafu’s lips. The retriever nudges Sledge with her nose, draws her tongue over his palm with a quick lick, and the redhead’s hand finds its way into the sleek, shiny fields of her golden fur.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first go at writing for TP! My characterizations have a long way to go, but its been fun getting my toes wet, so to speak. :) Thanks for reading!


End file.
